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goddamn the social nemesis.

they strike fiercely in dark of night, roving in packs, and howling for blood and conquest…flying with that fervent formation so apparent in vehicles of flight…the pilots with their narrow attitudes, and fractured frame of mind, though not the only guilty occupation in terms of misogamy…the marriage of movement blurred without fail into the shifting twilight horizon…the unmatched ego on that crusader could break the monkey’s uncle like a junkie’s delight…the sirens bled through the night, and into the shockingly-lit sterile room…the questions of what was seen were represented here by the officers in garments only a surgeon would be seen in, drab scrubs with a white and clinical cap, and face masks to coincide with the clinical personalities there…the pure energy filled my lungs, but not without their authority, I was able to breathe the peppered stink…whispered to me that the ‘gas’ would help to relieve me of the harsh bits of consciousness…the darkness invaded every pore…wishing to god, any god, that survival was mandatory…waking was the hard part in this uninvited guest of all personalities, a situation I had never realized existed before, and the intruding thoughts were abysmal in their foundations…the computer was in glitches by the time I was done with it…they had stripped me of my struggle against the waves by offering me the drug…it took days to get off the wagon’s edge properly, and plunge into the waters of what destiny would bring…it was a far too stark contrast to the face of the nurse each day, having to change my bandages when the kite string popped, and my words became mush…the pillows were not comfortable at all, but I got used to their tangible essence…provoking insomniac dreams of a peaceful rest somewhere inside, but none was to come for this patron saint, goddamn the judgment…all becomes the peace I’ve been waiting days for…then a knock breaks the silent weight between people…the man was at the door, and I had to answer it, with money in pocket…the racket was sharp, my hands unlocked the hatch, and the tapping was consistent and painful…I opened the door and let the man come inside…my home was drab, but we were perfectly happy with a desolate life, existing in trance…the microcosm opened to his approach, and he smiled, chatting me up as I closed the door again…I tried to be responsive, but I looked at him with tired eyes, with a bloodshot glaze and a cottonmouth dry-flapping…my temperament shifted with his showing me the stuff in his hand, I licked my lips, and moved my hand out towards the suspended leather glove…the man held out his hand, and I reached into my pocket without releasing my gaze from his eyes, this was only a small tithe for what the substance would mean for us…the doctors had built into my consciousness the ability for raw comprehensive thought while intoxicated beyond all normal sanity…this culture was making me sick, and the doctors fed on my small sums, I had payed for their trust in my health…the total motion became a process that, by now, I was used to…the doctors had trained me well, but my partner was not able to understand their controls in my head…my skull was made virtually indestructible, but the rest of me was not able to keep up with the abstraction of violence…their scalpels were sharpened and sterilized through my monies, and their attitudes were hardly able to stop the addiction that was there now…the emotional ground I was walking would soon be soothed by the presence of the man and his peculiar sales pitch…the window was glossy across the pane, and I stopped to view the wares within…my senses reacting aghast as the glare of the man drifted through me…he was just an agent of their fantastic powers of observation…a globe-trotting narcissist, no doubt…the kit lay within the glove’s space, and would be a necessary element to apply the treatments properly…agents knew the addictions just as personally as I did…knowing also the warning signs of infection or intoxication beyond any possible control…the agent was always a man, and appropriately dressed to further integrate into a system riddled with the spirit of metal…the air conditioner finished its’ jarring sounds in the stillness of empty tension between two distinct sides…sides of a severed understanding…the outcome was to be a natural process of give and take, but the man was reluctant for unknown reasons…I flashed back to the operating table when I was a child, and had a particular organ removed, there is nothing when I look for the scar today…the man’s mechanical eyes seemed to betray his discomfort for social atmospheres…we sat vacantly for a few minutes after I finally offered him a drink…the tension had ripped like an old tarp, and he vacantly stared at the stairwell near him…I felt weak with need for the wares, any wares, that I obeyed his telepathy for drinks…well, a break from interaction, anyway…once the kitchen hit my feet, it was easy to find something, but the refrigerator was not my source…my grammar would tell me cupboard, but I’m not really sure what led to me grabbing some warm vegetable juice…he drank the concoction with haste, and asked for the money likewise, which led to my digging into my pockets for the roll of bills we had collected together…as I handed him the currency, the spasms began like clockwork, and it must have been the time I spent wasting politeness that was working against me…by the time my hand reached his hand with the bartering tool, a severely sharp motion splayed my hand open before he had grabbed the cash, and I lunged for the dirt I had paid rightly for…he smacked me in the back of my head before I knew what was happening to me…my eyes fluttered as the swirling blackness filled my other senses before my face hit the floor with sloppy haste…breath came in sharply accompanied by the smell of blood as my eyes opened to the crimson mess amassed around my mouth…the total bother that this appeared to be was nothing compared to the craving making my stomach turn in knots…my rabid breaths making splatters of blood upon the linoleum floor around my face as the scream escaped her lips as she had come down the stairs of the house…my movements reminded me then, after many ragfulls of gasoline to further remind later on that day, of a wooden and stiff puppet held together with strings…my whole body took on the task to find the core of the craving deep and growling within me…my sides were echoing with the indescribable passion for substance that triggered the fits from my brainpan…the dealer had long since left, and I was chasing a ghost after too long…the dragon had left the building, and mine was the dust in the wake…when the pad was underneath my feet after the mile-or-so jog, my body was pitched to the side by the brawny fist of the man that my sweetheart had been seeing while she was living off me and my lot, and the full weight of me landed on the sofa…my wreck of a head was barely able to recognize the cunt as she strode into my line of sight…her screams were tuned out as the message faded with the dead love that gave birth to this unkind state…another nagging wound that would never close by itself…though the flesh might heal over, the scar begs to be ripped open with severe clarity, and no defense lives up to the mental demand that is drawn out by the urge for overkill…this present situation was no different in the long run than the other events that persuaded me without speaking…she demanded some drugs or an explanation, but either way she was leaving me for what’s-his-face…in the dark I sat, while she was fucked to death by the walking hormone, and the sofa was all mine to lay upon and fall asleep with bruised ribs…the needle seemed like the most profound option with its’ own burden to bear…the television, with the attached artificial glow, appeared snowy with eerie intensity…the fire was damned habitation for souls refused from the new artifice that became trend…the manifest of skill and talent crafted others who might be kings, but the art of the creation was never a clever concept completely masculine alone…there was no real gauge for this kind of behavior…my eyes stuttered open to stare at a blank and empty screen…she had said that there was too much attached to dealing with sleep patterns at differing intervals…no formulas to make the baby sleep at three in the morning…left with devices to amuse myself no longer…my hatred for the ants that were working fervently against me…
dancing with doctor Jones has become too much of a balancing act for me to achieve total clarity, but by speaking on such things it shall be inevitably brought to the attention of myself and others…walking alongside the street-level nightmares that crawl through the cityscape, and the rain that obsessively drips in my mind, the hat keeps the water from pouring out of my head…as the world floods all around, the drench is kept out of me by the force of will that my mediocre high is sustaining, and my sight won’t let me see ten feet in front of me…at least my feet don’t stumble when the rest of me is like this, but the inebriate state allows me to think outside of the constrict of usual tactics…the negative mindset that burns me out too often…living this life is not the bummer, but getting stuck where the loops wind together like strings in a cat’s cradle…the bar stands near to me, and my recognition for the sanctuary there is most apparent here and now, my entrance disturbs no one…the brim of the hat is sharp but soft, and it lands without a sound upon the bar as I take the seat next to that lovely thirty-something there…the bartender sees the desperation in my gaze, and nods accordingly, walking over to my end of the spectrum here…’What’ll you have, buddy?’…my tendency is towards a beer, but today feels like a special occasion, with the decision bringing me to consult the availability of the dirtiest martini possible on earth…the bartender says that he will see what he can do…feeling impelled to trust his direction, I wait there next to the attractive woman near to my stool at the bar…my memory fades, and the circuitry fizzles my outlook once the alcohol hits the system…it seems very unreal as my lips ask the girl next to me if she wants to fuck…at first, her face appears struck by the question, but then softens to a dull pitch once the disgust clears…I offer her the drink of her choice, of the bartender’s making, of course…she called me Dutch, but I wasn’t sure of the reference…her lips pursed and slipped, and lisped to stirring crazy wheels within me of a fictional pace…her tastes darted from bottle to bottle without a hesitating wisp of shame…so ends this tale in a blackout at the barstool…